


The Best They'd Ever Seen

by masterofstars



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Assassin AU, Drama, M/M, Mordern AU, Piercings, Romance, and there'll be more plot heavy stuff later on, but they'll get longer, kinda short at the beginning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2016-07-26
Packaged: 2018-03-30 08:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3930289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterofstars/pseuds/masterofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've never doubted your ability to killer. You're Bro Strider for hell's sake, you've always been booming with confidence. The stuff basically spills off you. You'd never had a problem with any job before. Until you're hired to kill him. That's when things take a turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

Your name is Bro Strider. Not really, but you've been called it so long that your old name isn't really you anymore either. That's not to say that you don't like either. Both are great in your opinion. It's just that Bro fits now. Dirk is someone else entirely, long gone. Hasn't been seen in years. He's gone, like a lot of other things.

You've been doing this for a while now, and you suppose it's a pretty good gig. Most people wouldn't call it average work, or normal or good or even moral. It's not that you _like_ doing it. This isn't some sick fetish of yours. You _do not_  get off on this shit. You do however love the pay, and it's much more exciting than anything else you could be doing. You used to dabble more in some differently 'unmentionable' work, nights spent in different beds and days spent making products for people to use in bed. Your work now isn't technically that different. Instead of different beds you just spend the nights (and days, depending) in different, varying houses of the wealthy and unwanted. You make the unwanted become the unheard, unseen and promptly unalive. In other words, you're an assassin.

This is startling to most people so you usually keep it to yourself. It's also not exactly legal, another very good reason to keep it on the down low. You never use your full name, because you're not some dumb fuck who was born yesterday. You're not the only one with the Strider tag and you'd have to be out of your mind to drag your brother into some bad shit because of your mistakes. He's already grown and off college. It'd be more than unfortunate for him to receive some kinda knock in the late hours of the night to meet his fate by some vengeful fuck. No, you just go by Bro. Bro is all it takes to get business done.

It took a while to ever get much recognition. Rome wasn't built in a day and apparently under the counter, sleazy hit man cartels aren't either. Hardly any customers came in at first, and the ones who did were either hesitant as all hell or looking for a cheap alternative to the big shots. Your persistence in the field seemed to work out in your favor in the end, considering that you're now one of the most desired assassins on the market. Ask anyone who knows of the increasingly famous 'Bro' and they'll tell you he's the guy to go to when you need a problem solved clean and easy. You always make it fast, clean and without a trace left behind. Practically steal the breath out of your targets before they can ever know what happened. It's easier that way.

That's what this run was supposed to be too. A quick hit, hiding the body and then you're home free. Money in the bank, dirty laundry cleaned and no one the wiser. God you wished it had stayed that easy.


	2. Chapter One

The apartment is silent as night creeps up over the tall building, casting the rooms into darkness and successfully hushing the atmosphere to an almost eerie calmness. It's easy to see remains from the day scattered around the small living space; a laptop placed haphazardly on the couch, a pizza box still left on the kitchen counter, discarded clothes littered in the hall near the broom cupboard of a bathroom. Your usual attire of polo shirts and jeans has never sufficed for your night job, not in the slightest.

You stand in what's left of the light in your room and pull on a dark pair of jeans, an equally as dark t shirt and a black leather jacket, contrast to your painfully pale skin. Both you and your brother have always had extremely sensitive skin and eyes, getting burnt from even just looking at bright lights from too long or spending too much time out in the sun. Dave got the worst of the trait, but your eyes are still bad enough to warrant your dark, pointed eyewear. Not to mention they're pretty kickass. You pull them on, pushing them up the bridge of your nose and reaching to strap on a leather, fingerless glove on each hand. Your signature identifier, real world and underworld. Well. Partly.

Walking from your room, you head down the hall and to the living room where you're absolutely sure you left the final piece of your 'killer' look, so to say. With a quick glance over of the room you spot it immediately, laying on the ground near the couch, dropped in an unceremonious manner the night before. You pick it up and slowly pull it from it's sheath, indulging yourself in the sound it makes as the blade comes into view, glittering in the steady stream of moonlight starting to filter in from the windows. Your katana. Your beautifully deadly blade that makes all the shitty replicas around your house look like children's toys in comparison. And technically, they had been at one point, when Dave was still around. The thought brings a small smile to your face as you slide the katana back into it's sheath and swing it over your shoulder. You'd had it fitted with a strong enough strap to keep it on your back after more than a few incidents of dropping it while ascending buildings on a regular basis.

The last piece to the puzzle of tonight's activities was laying on the counter near the door, exactly where you had placed it. You look it over one more time and commit it to your memory for at least the third time. A simple name, address and a small, extra request written underneath.

James Egbert.

21605 Fir Drive.

Make him pay.

Pay for what? You had no idea. You never pried, that wasn't part of the job. Whatever this guy had done, it wasn't any of your business. It was enough to land him with a death wish and a pretty fiery enemy willing to pay for it to be done. Shoving the piece of paper deep down into you pocket, you leave the dark apartment for the night, locking it up with the key you'd been keeping atop the baseboard of the door for ages. You set it back and descend in the elevator, silently leaving the building through the back door. You'd found out about it a few nights into your early escapes after realizing the front was under constant watch by electronic eyes. While it would have been easy to disarm the prying robotic eyes, it would have raised suspicions and that's the exact thing you were trying to avoid. The back door was unguarded and just as easy, never being locked or blocked.

When the cold, late night air hit you it was like a fresh wakeup call; crisp and tasting like frost, making the hair on the nape of your neck stand on end in a familiar way. You knew in the morning the weather would settle back to it's hazy, disgustingly heavy heat as the Texas sun rose, but for now it was cool, calming to your senses as you set off for the new address.

It didn't take long to find at all. Suburban and pretty quaint, the house didn't really seem like the kinda place you'd send an assassin. It was easy to tell the neighborhood was a good one. The houses that lined the streets were all pristine, bright white with small bursts of colors on windows or porches. Many were adorned with kid's bikes and toys that looked fitting on the closely cut front lawns. The one you stood in front of lacked the toys, but the front yard was in impeccable condition. Shit like this was never your style, but you could definitely see the effort put into it. It almost made you want to avoid stepping on the grass and only use the cobble path up to the door, but it was pretty fuckin obvious you couldn't just waltz through the front door.

No, you pull yourself from your thoughts and stalk your way over the grass (it definitely did feel wrong) and did a quick evaluation of the house. Pretty standard, locked lower windows. No security system (sucker). Basically begging to be broken into. None of the lights in the house were on, which made you suspect it's residences were either asleep or didn't need lights on for their late night activities. With another, closer once around of the house, your peeks into the windows earned you the knowledge that the guy definitely lived alone. One pair of shoes by the door, one coffee mug left on kitchen counter, one placement set on the dining room table. Good, that made it pretty easy for you. Now just to get to the upper level.

You move around to the back and immediately put the tree in the yard to use. You make quick work of it, the branches making easy purchases for both your hands and feet, and thankfully placed just perfectly for you to reach a second floor window. You're steady on your feet as you stand on the branch, glancing into the window to get an idea of what room you were about to be in. It didn't seem to have anyone in it, or really much of /anything/ in it either. A bed, a dresser, a computer desk and a chest of sorts. Didn't look like anyone had been calling it home for a while. Almost instantly you connected it to Dave's room back at home, empty and hollow with only shadows of Dave's old things in it. Did he have a son? Daughter? Old enough to move out?

Wasn't your business. As long as no one was in the room, that's all that mattered. Stepping along the branch and closer to the window, you slide the pane of glass up along the track slow, making sure it wouldn't make any noise before opening it up enough to fit through. Your feet hit the floor with the softest of thumps as you hoist yourself through, your eyes scanning the room the minute your feet touch the ground.

You confirm what you already know. Nobody in the room. One less thing to worry about. You waste no time, pulling out your blade in one swift movement and holding it out in front of you, raised to waist level as you saunter through the room towards the door. It makes no sound as you open it, evidence to how well maintained the house is. Now that you're in the hall there's three more doorways for you to choose from. One, slightly ajar and across from you. You don't bother with it, already suspecting it's a bathroom. The two others are further down the hall by a few steps, both closed. Either could be what you're looking for, and you don't have time to waste trying to calculate which one.

You walk up to the first and put your hand on the doorknob, turning it slow and steady, pushing forward once it gives purchase, only letting it move a few inches before you look in. Broom closet. Nothing but cleaning supplies, towels, extra toiletries and what looks to be a few cans of barbasol. Huh. You close that door again and step up to the next, looking it over without a change of expression.

You used to get nervous at this part before. The first time was by far the worst, your hands shaky and unsure as you opened up the door to your first victim. Now, your composure never wavered, not at the aspect of the door nor what was behind it. Your hand met the handle without hesitation, going through the same motions as you did with the unsuccessful closet door, though this time you don't bother only opening it up a few inches. You open it enough to let yourself through and let it stay that way, looking around the room and finding it to be a master bedroom. A large bed against the wall, closet filled with what looked to be business suits, a row of shoes shined to perfection with the moonlight beaming down on them. But... no one in bed. Not too odd, if not for the fact that you already surveyed most of the bottom level through the windows and were sure no one was down there either. The car was in the driveway, so he was definitely home. Basement? Attic? You turned to go check but were no longer met with just the door behind you.

"Might I ask why you're sneaking around my house?"


	3. Chapter Two

Shit. Got caught. And you were so careful. Your gaze on the stranger in front of you doesn't waver, but of course in the dark of the room and with your shaded lenses over your eyes, he would have no idea. He's middle aged, looking a few years older than yourself. His build is bigger than yours, broader in the shoulders and with obvious muscle to him. He won't be as quick or agile as you, and you know you can use it to your advantage. Your stance changes with a smooth movement of your footing, getting slightly lower and holding your katana at the ready.

But he doesn't make a move.

"Pardon, but I believe I asked you a question."

His voice isn't deep, but it's definitely got mangrits to it. His tone is firm, but not impolite, which you find odd. Anyone else would either be attacking or running to try call the police. Your curiosity at his reaction to your presence almost makes you want to answer, but you don't. It's not really any of his business.

"Alright, I see you won't be answering me." His form moves in the darkness and for a moment your hand grips your blade, about to make a move when he moves past you slowly, walking over to his bed and sitting down on the edge of it... taking off his shoes? You're definitely confused now, and you find yourself letting your stance fall short. You correct it quickly with a small shake of your head. You stare at him for the few minutes he takes to pull off his shoes and then he's looking back at you. Even in the dark you can see his light, almost aqua blue eyes trained on you. He doesn't seem disturbed by you being here at all and if you're honest it's kind of starting to piss you off.

"You know why I'm here." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Your voice is the same as always, light and laced with your thick Texan accent.

He nods in acknowledgement and seems to almost smile. What? Why would he smile at that? If he knows he's about to be offed, why in the world would he be smiling at you like that? It's not exactly an unattractive smile, but it confuses you even more than you already are. Possibilities run through your head.

He's smiling because he knows what he did and wants to die? He thinks he deserves it? No. No, it's not that kind of smile. You've seen that before. Those smiles are never pleasant. They're calm and they're soft but they aren't pleasing to the eye in any way, and more often than not they're paired with watery eyes to complete the whole pity longing look. Egbert didn't have that. His smile was like his voice, polite and almost welcoming in it's kindness. He was most definitely trying to trick you, he had to be. And you wouldn't let him. Your hands stay on the hilt of your blade and you continue to stare him down, not saying any more.

When he speaks next it's with a friendly tone, matter of fact if nothing else. "I suppose there's no need for introductions, considering you're here. You already know my name. And I know yours."

At that you make a noise from the back of your throat, almost a laugh. He doesn't know your name. Not your real name anyway. He was a stranger, and he knew no more about you than you knew about him.

"You're Bro." His answer to your noise only confirms your thoughts. He doesn't know shit. You don't even know why you're indulging his useless small talk anymore. You could easily flashstep over there and have your blade soaked in his blood in a heartbeat. Yet you don't. You've never been good at holding yourself back when you're annoyed.

"No shit. What gave it away? The entirely obvious glasses? The gloves? The katana pointed directly at your neck?" In stark contrast to his, your voice is laced with venomous sarcasm that basically drips from your tongue. You couldn't care less whether he thinks you're polite or not, and you'd be damned if you were going to talk to him like you were all chummy and the best of friends.

Somehow your rhetorical questions make his lips turn up even more, his smile now accompanied by a chuckle. God what _was_ his problem? You could feel your blood pressure starting to rise, and you'd be damned if you let him get away with making you this mad.

He can obviously tell you're about to act, since he speaks again before you can plan your course of action.

"It's alright if you want to come sit. I don't bite."

...Is this guy serious? He had to be joking. He was _not_ hitting on you. He'd have to be absolutely mental. That's not to say that he wasn't attractive, and now that you look at him that way he is pretty damn hot, but you're literally about to kill him. Who flirts with their killer? Maybe if the situation was different, you'd have considered flirting back. If you had met this guy at a bar or on the street, or anywhere for that matter, you'd have taken up offer in the tone of his voice without a doubt.

But he's a target. He's off limits. He's marked, and soon he'll be dead.

You don't bother answering, moving across the room for in a mere second and pressing him down into his bed, your blade up against his neck. You'd have thought he'd fight this, but he's more than compliant under you, and it's off putting as hell. He doesn't seem to be bothered by the sharp metal against his flesh, or the fact that if you move it even just a few more inches, press down a bit more, his blood will be spilling onto his perfect white sheets.

As you think about it he stares up at you and you're both silent, a calm and strangely alright silence that definitely shouldn't be ok at all. Yet it is and you hate it enough to have to break it.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" You ask as if Egbert is the world's greatest mystery and you can't bear to not know. He only smiles that stupid smile of his and you only get more annoyed at it. Fuck he's getting on your nerves, you should just do it already. Why aren't you just doing it? You press the blade firm against his neck and his smile is still as soft as ever, not even a flinch to disturb his features. His smile is far too knowing and now you're the one flinching as he brings a hand to yours, which as of right now is resting on the sheets to the side of his head. His touch is soft, just holding your wrist as if to reassure you. It's almost fatherly in a way.

"Do what you've got to do. I won't stop you." He says, his voice far too steady for someone about to be sliced open. Why is he looking at you as if he knows what you're feeling? Better question. What are you feeling?

You hadn't even realized it before now but your heart started picking up pace sometime around when his hand met your wrist. It doesn't make sense to you, but it's happening and you can't seem to stop it. He's too accepting. He's not supposed to be like this. You've done this at least a million times now. It's supposed to be easy. Get in, get it done, get gone. That's how it always is. Why is this time so different? Your usually ever steady hand starts to shake, and you feel betrayal rush through you as your body starts showing just how unsure you are. The shaking of your hands transfers to the blade, making it tremble against the man's neck and you can see him look at you. Fuck him and his understanding gaze. Fuck his smile that's still so warm and patient. Fuck him for looking like he can see right through your shitty attempts to keep your cool.

His other hand comes up and your eyes dart to it, watching him as he reaches up and touches your cheek, brushing his thumb over your skin. You try your best not to lean into it, but his hand is so firm, stronger than yours and somehow warmer than you as he rubs the pad of his thumb over your jaw now. You fail miserably and tilt your head into the touch, your grip on the katana far too loose, yet he does nothing to grab it from you or even move it further away from him.

"Strider..." His voice is nothing more than a hushed murmur as your name falls from his lips and instantly your heart stops.

He knows. How could he possibly know? You swore you never told anyone, not to any clients, not to any victims. No one. He shouldn't even know that name, let alone know that it's _yours_. You stare down at him, too shocked to even be mad yet, frozen over top of him.

"Who are you?" It's all you can manage to ask, and he seems to know that you're basically flying right off the handle right now the second you ask.

"Not someone you have to be afraid of." What kind of bullshit answer is that? That doesn't give you anything. Nothing but an absolutely terrible feeling in your gut that makes you want to trust him. You shouldn't, you know that very well but your head is definitely no longer the driving force behind your decisions. Your heart is already fluttering like some school boy getting to sit by his crush and it's fucking embarrassing. Your guard is completely gone as he slowly starts to sit up, seemingly not worried about the katana that still graces his neck with it's cold metal. You know why he's not worried, but what you don't know is why you're moving the blade with him so he can sit up instead of just doing what you should and slashing that darkly tanned skin of his.

You try to come up with a response to his completely useless answer to your question, and he must know you're at a loss because he doesn't seem to even be expecting you to say any more. You can feel his arm going around your waist and you do nothing to stop it. Fuck he's strong. You can feel it in the way he holds you, his muscles obvious even under the white dress shirt he's wearing. With him this close to you now you can smell his aftershave and his scent laced underneath. It's intoxicating to say the least and you curse yourself for wanting him to come even closer. There's already barely 5 inches between your faces yet it seems like 5 inches too much. His hand is still on your wrist and beginning to caress up your arm, making your eyes close for the millisecond you let them. No, no. Keep your eyes open. He could still turn on you. Somehow though, you seriously doubt it.

A few long moments pass with you both just looking at each other and you swear it's the longest few seconds of your life. Your hand is slowly starting to remove the katana from his jugular while his is slowly making it's way up your arm. It grazes past your shoulder and up your neck and to your dismay you shiver. He can obviously feel it, considering you're full on straddling his lap now, your sword arm relaxed at your side. Sometime in all of this your other came up to grab onto the side of his shirt at his waist, an embarrassing show of how much you're using him to steady yourself. Which is ironic since he's the one making you unsteady in the first place.

Oh shit. Ohhh shit. He's leaning forward now, eyes on you and you know what's coming next. Your heart is practically pulsing hard enough to shatter your ribcage with each heartbeat as he closes the distance between you two. His hand on your jaw is gently pulling you into him and you're not doing anything to stop it. Do something, Strider. C'mon, stop this before it goes too far.

Needless to say, you don't stop it. Egbert's lips meet yours in the softest kiss you've ever had. His lips are thinner than yours, suiting him perfectly as he presses them against yours with a gentle caress of your cheek. Your head is somehow racing even though it's starting to get clouded by his scent and the way his lips feel. Why is he doing this? It could always be to mess with you but it sure as hell doesn't feel like it. Why is he being so gentle with you? If he wanted you why wouldn't he kiss you like everyone else ever has, rough and unheeding? It's not fair for him to kiss you like this if he's just trying to distract you from doing the job.

The job. You hadn't realized it but the sword is gone from your hand entirely, fell to the floor with a brief 'clank', completely forgotten to the feeling of the kiss. Which you're now reciprocating. Why are you doing that? Because you want it, that's why. You want more of him and his gentle touches and like everything else, he knows. His tongue slides out along your bottom lip and you're putty in his grasp now, letting your lips part to let him in and deepen the kiss. He's still as composed as ever and in contrast you're basically a needy mess already, wanting more of him to a point where it was ridiculous. This wasn't how any high paying, highly regarded assassin was supposed to act, especially not with someone you were hired to kill. But things are different now. He's not just a name on a piece of paper, he knows you. Somehow this stranger knows your name and somehow you want to hear him say it again.

It doesn't even need to be said. You fucked this one up.


	4. Chapter 3

The first time you’d ever seen Roxanne Lolande was the year of your graduation. She was gorgeous, to say the least. If the word on the block was right, she went by Roxy. Loved a good martini when made right, had a giggle like a babbling brook the morning after a good rain, and could have any man in his right man on his knees in a heartbeat. Bro understood when he’d seen her that they were probably right. Her blonde hair was platinum in a way that could only ever be real, the kind of hair every girl in the state of California wished to have. She had it cut so it hung just above her shoulders and you couldn’t help but notice how it bounced as she walked.

Unlike you, though, she was graduating for a different reason. It wasn’t hard to snoop around and find out she was looking for a spot as a bounty hunter among the many others living life with daring duels and hunting for sport. A hunger games style showdown between who could get which bounty first. Not your style.

 

It was half a decade later that you saw her again. The same head of blonde hair that shined beautifully in the low golden light, matching the assorted white marble surfaces in the house perfectly. It was the average VIP, rich, white and important party that someone had to hold each month or suffer the consequences of both social and economic downfall. If you were honest you weren’t really sure who was even holding the event. All you knew is that you were assigned to attend and you weren’t about to back down.

The party was in full swing when you arrived in your black limousine and matching black suit. You couldn’t stop yourself from toying with the cuff links while walking up the front steps, status of lions on either side of the rails to welcome you. The night was quiet save for the chirping of nightcrawlers and jumpers, the soft sound of water from somewhere within the overly trimmed garden, and, as you walked closer, the low hum of music and chatter and the odd laugh above it all.

It was everything you expected it to be. If you had a camera you could take a picture and hold it up to a frame from a movie set in the 1920’s and they would match up perfectly. Dressed to the nines was about as fitting as it would get for a cliche description of the party’s attendees. Men were in their best and women were in their ‘even better’, a constant fight between trophy wives to see who wore what better, who had the most money and who was wearing the biggest diamond. But not Lalonde. It took about half an hour and two flutes of champagne before you caught sight of her in her long rose gold gown, fitted bodice and ballgown ruffles. It was embroidered and big and screamed Roxy all through the room as she wore it with a matching smile. You couldn’t help but wonder what she had on under it. Not in the way the men oogling her, but in a ‘what gear is she harboring’ way. Of course she was probably fitted to all hell under all that fabric. If you pulled up the ruffles maybe you’d find her in runners instead of heels.

The man beside her caught your attention after the initial sparkle and surprise of her dress wore off. Maybe it was the way he held himself or the look on his face, but he was set apart from the crowd in your mind instantly. He was outfitted the same; tuxedo with sterling cuff links and a tie pin to match, starkly pressed fabric. You wanted to pull on his tie as your amber eyes wandered over it but that ‘wasn’t appropriate conduct for these things, Strider’. Bullshit.

James Egbert was going to be the death of you, that was for sure. You hadn’t seen him in a little under half a decade and still he could have your heart start to pound and your back feel sticky with sweat from over thinking.

You shouldn’t talk to him. It’s been too long. It was just a fling, anyways. You’re on entirely different levels.

He’s climbing the ladder rings of secret service and you’re…

You’re hanging on by a thread. Just barely making it. Only here for back up.

The thoughts had run through your head for too long. Each drink stolen from a platter held up by a white jacketed server was just more fuel for said thoughts and as both Lalonde and Egbert came up to you, they got even worse. Buzzing like hornets getting angrier and angrier and forcing their way to the front of your mind. Egbert looked like a freshly printed hundred with ‘daddy’s money’ written in invisible ink all over it. Yet everyone could see it. Other business men looked on and spoke in hushed tones until he stepped up with that gorgeously warm smile and shook their hands, making them look abashed that they had just been bad mouthing him. He was refined, he was a prodigy, he would only get better with training, the next big name that no one but the elite would ever hear. He was perfect and as you downed your second glass of white wine you could still hear his voice gasping your name in the darkness of a university dorm, breathless and beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so!! after a loooong, long time leaving this fic lying twitching and dying on the side of the ao3 highway, i've come back to it!
> 
> entirely new plotline than what i'd had before, but it's hopefully going to be a good one none the less!
> 
> i'll be updating it as much as i can, but no promises for any dates


End file.
